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Chapter Text

The sound of war drums thundered across the valley, their relentless rhythm echoing in the ears of Virelle’s prince and in the quick, uneven beat of his heart. Soldiers and common folk alike scrambled to ready themselves for the oncoming storm: Caldrith’s war-bound militia, ruthless and unyielding, drawing ever closer to Virelle’s gates.

For nearly a decade, the two kingdoms had teetered on the edge of war, each laying claim to the same dying lands, their greed feeding the fires of hatred. And yet, through all the tension, the heir of Virelle had labored tirelessly to avoid the inevitable. He had prayed for peace, bargained with fate, and even set aside his crown’s pride — all for one man. Caldrith’s youngest prince. The source of his torment and the reason for his trembling hope.

By every rule of blood and lineage, they were sworn enemies. Every meeting from the night they first crossed paths should have ended in steel and ruin. But it hadn’t. Instead, something fragile and forbidden took root — a quiet rebellion against destiny itself.

In secret, the princes conspired. In shadows, they forged ceasefires and traded warnings. Every whispered alliance, every treasonous act against their own crowns, was a prayer for peace. But it seemed the gods had long since turned their faces away, deaf to the pleas of desperate men.

Now, as the drums of war roared louder than ever, the prince of Virelle spurred his stallion through the rain-soaked fields, his lips moving in a breathless, wordless prayer. Not for victory. Not even for his people. But for him, the prince who infuriated and entranced him in equal measure.

He rode until the ash tree came into view. That ancient sentinel where they had met so many nights before, where secrets had been whispered between the roots. Yet as he approached, dread pooled in his gut. The clearing was too still. Too quiet.

He did not call out. Some part of him already knew. Later, he would tell himself it was fear that kept his voice still. But in truth, it was recognition.

For at the foot of the ash tree lay the Prince of Caldrith — bound in his own cloak, his body bloodied and broken. Carved into his chest were words that burned themselves into the Prince of Virelle’s mind:

“Let the traitor greet his lover with silence.”

The heir of Virelle fell to his knees, a sound tearing from his throat — raw, inhuman, filled with the kind of grief that makes the world hold its breath. His trembling hands cradled the still-warm body of his beloved, desperate for any sign of life — a flutter of breath, a flicker of those brown eyes that had haunted him in every dream.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking like glass. “You can’t leave me like this.” He pressed his forehead to the other’s, trembling, sobbing until the sound seemed to shake the heavens themselves.

Then he lifted his head and screamed into the storm, voice ragged and defiant:

“Is this all you are? A god of silence? Of rot? Where are your laws now? Take me! Take everything! Just—don’t take him!”

But the heavens answered only with rain.

Jeno — the prince of Virelle — looked down at his beloved once more. His tears mingled with the blood between them as he pressed a final kiss to the cold lips he once knew by heart. The kiss tasted of ash and broken promises.

“If there is anything left in this cursed world that can hear me,” he whispered, “hear me now. Bring him back. I don’t care what it costs.”

Suddenly, the air grew still. The ash tree groaned — low, ancient, alive. Its roots curled inward, like the fingers of a dying god. And from the space between worlds, something stepped through.

A figure cloaked in shadow and silence.
A crown woven of darkness. A presence that made the marrow of the earth tremble. The god of Death had come.

“Lee Jeno, son of Virelle,” the god intoned, his voice like rusted bells. “You would trade eternity for a single soul?”

Jeno did not look away from the god and with all the courage he could’ve muster he said steadily “I would trade heaven and earth if that’s what it takes. I don’t care what it costs.”

The god tilted his head, an ancient, weary amusement in his eyes. “You misunderstand the weight of your wish,” he said. “To unwrite death is not an act of mercy. It is an act of violence. And the wound must have a place to bleed.”

“Then take me,” Jeno said, his voice steady now. “My soul, my name — all of it. Let him live.” The god smiled — a terrible, knowing smile. “No. Your death is too easy. You will live. You will hunger.”

He reached out — not to the fallen prince, but to Jeno and said with a foreboding tone:
“I curse you to walk the world unending. To have a heart that beats but does not warm.
Eyes that weep but never close.”

“You will thirst, son of Virelle— not for wine, but for blood. You will become a thing feared in every age. A shadow whispered of in myth”.

Jeno trembled. “And him?” he whispered.

“He will return,” said the god. “But not now. Not to you. He will sleep beneath these roots until the world forgets his name. And when he rises, he will have no memory of you — only the ache of something lost.”

Jeno closed his eyes. The choice had already been made.

“If he lives… that is enough.”

The god nodded. “So be it.”

The earth shuddered. Roots coiled around the body of Caldrith’s prince, pulling him into the soil. All while Jeno screamed as the curse took hold — his blood turning to fire, his breath to frost, his name scattering like dust on the wind.

And thus began his unending hunger.

Chapter Text

The rain had been falling since morning. A steady, ceaseless rhythm that matched the dull ache behind Jaemin’s eyes. He watched it from the kitchen window, the gray light smearing against the glass, washing the city in a weary kind of silence.

Behind him, Winter moved quietly through the apartment, her footsteps soft, deliberate. They had been together for three years. Three years of routines, compromises, and silences that stretched too long. Three years that resulted in the warmth that once lived among them to no longer exist; only the fragile civility that grows between two people who’ve forgotten how to speak to one another.

As Jaemin tried to rub away the dull ache behind his eyes, he couldn’t help reflect on the current state of his life. By societal standards, he had everything he was told he should want. A decent job, a neat apartment, a woman who cared for him and yet each passing day felt as if he was in a constant battle with himself on why he should be happy. And every morning felt like waking from a dream he couldn’t remember.

But sometimes, when the night grew quiet, he did remember. He saw flashes of red banners snapping in a wind that smelled of smoke and blood. A hand reaching for him across a battlefield. Eyes, dark and fevered, looking at him as if he were something worth dying for. And a tree with bark the color of ash, its roots stained with something darker.

When he woke, those images vanished like smoke, leaving behind only the taste of sorrow and a name that never quite made it to his lips.

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That night, after another quiet argument that dissolved into nothing, Jaemin left the apartment. The city was a labyrinth of wet asphalt and flickering lights. He walked aimlessly, the rain soaking through his jacket until he couldn’t tell where the cold ended and he began.

It was near midnight when he saw him. Whether it was luck, pure coincidence or a twist of fate Jaemin crossed paths with a stranger so familiar that he froze.

The man stood under a broken streetlight, unmoving as the rain pooled around his boots. His coat was dark, his hair darker still, and his eyes as they caught the dim light made Jaemin’s breath hitch.

For the stranger’s eyes were not brown as Jaemin had anticipated. They weren’t even a dull gray that he saw sometimes reflected back at him whenever he stole a passing glance at the mirrors stationed in his home. No the man’s eyes were something between red and silver, as if torn between warmth and ruin. He didn’t know this man. And yet… every part of Jaemin insisted that he somehow did.

The stranger regarded him for a long moment before speaking. His voice was low smooth, almost tired. “You shouldn’t be walking alone tonight.” Jaemin swallowed. “Neither should you.” The man’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Perhaps not.”

For a heartbeat, the air between them shifted into something heavy and charged. The sound of rain faded until Jaemin could hear only the beat of his heart. Something inside him strained toward the stranger, like a tether pulled taut after lifetimes of silence.

“Do we… know each other?” Jaemin asked quietly. The man’s gaze softened and flickered with an emotion that was gone before Jaemin could name it. After a beat of silence, the man murmured “once…but it feels as if it was a lifetime ago”.

The words sank deep. And then, without warning, Jaemin’s mind fractured into light and noise as pieces of a broken vision flashed within his mind-

Two kingdoms on the brink of ruin.
The clash of swords beneath a blood-red sky. A hidden meeting beneath an ash tree Flashes of two princes, one crown, one war. Hands clasped, breathless promises whispered between stolen moments. And then blood. So much blood.

The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving behind a hollow ache in his chest. Jaemin staggered, gripping a lamppost to steady himself as his mind reeled from the images. Meanwhile, the stranger didn’t move closer. Didn’t speak. But something in his expression said he knew.

“Who are you?” Jaemin’s voice came out as a whisper. His head now pounding with the dull ache he was so accustomed too after a restless night. “Someone who made a promise,” the man said softly and then with his tone cracking like glass the man said “And someone still paying for it.”

Before Jaemin could ask another word, a car passed by, its headlights blinding for an instant. When the light faded, the man was gone. Only the rain and Jaemin’s obscure thoughts remained long after.

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Back home, Winter was asleep, her breathing steady and indifferent. Jaemin stood by the window, staring at the storm-swept city. His mind still bewildered at the encounter from early in the night as sleep once again evaded him.

As Jaemin stood, thunder rolled somewhere far away-deep and rhythmic-like war drums echoing from another lifetime. He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath his skin. The glass before him reflected his face and for the briefest instant, another image flickered there beside it—

A man with eyes like burning dusk.
A crown half-broken.
A face twisted by both love and grief.

Then, as lightning struck, the reflection vanished and Jaemin found himself whispering to the empty room “I was supposed to protect you.”

He didn’t understand where the words came from, or why they made his throat ache. In fact, Jaemin felt as if he had finally embraced delirium as images from the vision he had early flashed once again.
Suddenly, as the storm raged on, beneath the roll of thunder, came a voice so faint he thought he imagined it. A voice that was soft and ancient, carried on the wind that said “I kept my promise, my prince. Even after death. Even after the gods forgot us.”

Jaemin shut his eyes and indirectly the voice out of his mind as the rain drummed against the glass. The ache in his chest now deepened, familiar and wrong all at once. And then Jaemin had the sudden thought that the pain he now he seemed to live with was the kind of pain only love and curses could leave behind. Then with a scoff he whispered to himself “I truly must be losing my mind” as he sluggishly made his way to bed.

He didn’t know it yet, but the storm had awakened something buried deep beneath the roots of time and the shadow of an old vow had finally begun to stir.

Chapter Text

The city woke in shades of gray. Morning light slipped through the blinds in narrow cuts, dividing the room into fragments. Jaemin lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, feeling not only the weight of a dream he couldn’t quite hold onto but for once a memory.

And as the first ray of reflected onto his night damp skin, Jaemin couldn’t help but feel as if the memory had somehow weighted more as he remembered the man from the night before. Not only did he remember the man, but Jaemin also remembered the rain. It’s downpour so rhythmic and soothing that it sent phantom shivers along his spine that eerily resemble an echo of a distant memory he couldn’t quite grasp. A memory that somehow involved strong hands tracing the curve of his back.

But most of all, Jaemin had remembered the way his chest had burned when he met the eyes of the man. Eyes that burned of chaos and ruin and somehow something more. Something that had Jaemin’s skin taut with energy, as if his heart had recognized something his mind refused to.

Suddenly winter stirred beside him, pulling him from the memory he was shamelessly obsessing over. “You didn’t sleep again,” she murmured, her voice muffled by the pillow.
“I’m fine,” Jaemin lied in response as he stifled a sigh. She turned toward him, eyes half-open. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.” Concern not only echoing in her tone but her face as well.

At this recognition, Jaemin had wanted to tell her that he hadn’t been fine in months. That he woke most nights gasping for air, his body trembling from dreams of war and loss. That sometimes, he caught himself whispering prayers to gods that had long since vanished or had ceased to exist. But the words never made it past his lips. Instead, he said softly, “Just bad dreams.”

Winter studied him for a moment, then sighed and sat up as she said“You should talk to someone.”

“I just need rest.” Jaemin retorted lifelessly.
At this, her expression became unreadable as she murmured a faint “Right.” the seemed to be swallowed by the silence that came after. The quietness now stretched, heavy and fragile between them. And despite, his earlier inclination to open up to Winter, Jaemin had decided to let the silence grew even more. Eventually, Winter left for work without another word or glance at Jaemin, her perfume lingering behind like a ghost.

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Jaemin stayed in bed long after the door shut, staring at the rain streaking down the window. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled again — low and rhythmic, like drums calling soldiers to march; and that sound unlocked something.
~<>~
He was standing in a courtyard, the air thick with the scent of iron and smoke. Soldiers ran past him, shouting orders, their armor flashing red beneath a burning sky.

Suddenly, a hand seized his wrist.
He turned — and saw him. A prince dressed in black and silver, his eyes fierce with urgency. “You shouldn’t be here,” the man said.

“I couldn’t stay away,” Jaemin heard himself answer, his voice not his own but still his. “If this is the end, I wanted to see you one last time.”

The man’s expression broke with pain, anger, devotion all tangled together. “Don’t say that.” He whispered. Then the sound of war drowned everything out. And with it the vision shattered.
~<>~
Jaemin gasped awake with his heart hammering. His sheets were damp with sweat, his pulse racing as if he’d run miles. With the remnants of his his most recent vision flashing through his mind’s eye he stumbled to the sink, splashed cold water on his face, and finally met his reflection in the mirror.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t recognize himself.

There was blood on his cheek. Not real — just a flicker, an illusion — but it vanished when he blinked. His reflection wavered, and behind it, the faintest outline of another man appeared. The same man from the rain. The same man from his dreams.

“Who are you?” Jaemin whispered. But the reflection didn’t answer.

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Later, at the café down the street, Jaemin sat by the window, staring blankly at the people passing outside. The world moved normally yet he felt detached, like watching a play he’d already seen a thousand times.

His phone buzzed. A message from Winter:
We need to talk tonight.

He typed a reply, deleted it, then put the phone down. Already dreading the impending argument on the horizon. “Rough morning?” a voice called out to him, The voice was familiar. Smooth. Steady. Too calm for a stranger.

Jaemin looked up. The man from last night stood before him. Rain clung to his coat again, though it hadn’t been raining. His eyes were a shade darker today, more gray than red, but the same tension rippled beneath his calm. “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

Jaemin couldn’t speak. He just nodded. The man took the seat across from him, folding his hands. For a long moment, they sat in silence, the city’s hum fading around them.“Do you always disappear like that?” Jaemin asked finally, trying to sound casual.“Sometimes,” the man said. “Old habits.” He then added with a smirk that made Jaemin’s pulse raced erratically.

Jaemin swallowed thickly to mask the sensation as he studied the man before him. All while the man leveled an intense gaze back at him. A noticeable tension electrified the space between the two males. And Jaemin couldn’t help but notice that the longer the man stared at him the more his body seemed to react. As if some innate and dormant part of him was drawn to the man before him.

Jaemin desperately wanted to ask the man if he too felt the same pull as him but instead he found himself saying “You look… familiar.” The faintest smile touched the man’s lips as he asked “Do I?”

“Yeah. It’s strange. I can’t explain it.” Jaemin countered. The man tilted his head, watching him with an intensity that made Jaemin’s chest ache. “Maybe some things don’t need explaining.”

At that, a flicker of something passed through Jaemin’s mind — laughter under moonlight, hands brushing against rough bark, promises whispered beneath a tree older than kingdoms. He blinked. “How did you say that we met again?” Jaemin asked hurriedly.

The man hesitated, then said softly, “I didn’t, atleast not in a way you’d remember.

“Then tell me your name.” Jaemin asked.

For a heartbeat, the man didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, as if the word itself hurt. When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper: “Jeno.” The name hit Jaemin like thunder. Something inside him shifted. The café blurred. His pulse thundered in his ears.

He saw flashes again — that ash tree, its roots soaked in blood. His hands stained red. His voice screaming into a sky that would not answer. And through it all, that same man ,Jeno, falling to his knees beside him, his face twisted in grief.

Jaemin gasped, gripping the table as the images flashed through his mind. “Are you all right?” Jeno asked, his tone carefully calm. Jaemin could only stare at him. Eventually, he murmured out loud“I… know that name.”

Jeno’s expression softened. A hint of sorrow touched his smile. “Of course you do,” he whispered. “You savored the feeling of it once.” He then added softly. So soft that Jaemin had almost missed it.

“What do you mean by that?” Jaemin asked breathlessly. Jeno seemed shocked at the question, perplexed almost. But as quickly as the shock came it vanished. Suddenly the dark hair male stood up and said again once more “some things don’t need explaining” as he prepared to leave the cafè.

Feeling a jolt of panic, Jaemin stood up abruptly and hurriedly said “Jeno wait—“ but his sentence was cut short as Jeno said “it was a privilege seeing you again Jaemin, enjoy your evening” as he exited the cafè and disappeared through the crowd once more.

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That night, Jaemin didn’t go home.
He walked until the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and gray. Every step felt heavier, like the ground remembered something he did not.

By the time he reached the river, the rain had started again and somewhere in the sound of it, he swore he heard a voice whisper his name. Not the one he bore now.
The one he had lost long ago.

“My prince of Caldrith…”

The words wrapped around him like a memory, and this time, he didn’t turn away. This time he was determined to hold on to it.

Chapter Text

Night came easily to Jeno. It always had, even before the curse. But now it was all that truly belonged to him.

He walked through the city as the lights flickered to life. Some days he still found himself in awe of how dozen to millions of life became pale imitation of stars that humanity had built to keep the dark at bay. Yet it was all in vain, Jeno knew first hand that noting truly ever keeps the dark away.

The air was thick with not just rain and exhaust but the scent of a thousand heartbeats pulsing through the streets. Each one whispered to him. Each one reminded him of what he had become. Of what he now desired.

As he strolled along the rain slicked streets, he felt the familiar ever present gnawing ache in his bones. But he ignored it, as he always did nowadays. He didn’t feed often anymore—not out of mercy, but fear.

The god of Death had not lied to him. The thirst was endless, gnawing at the edges of his sanity like teeth against bone. But It wasn’t the never ending hunger or the unwavering need for blood that made him detest feeding; it was the memories that came with each feed.

Every drop of blood he took from another carried echoes of their life. And when he did fed, their memories drowned him. Their grief, their sins, their love had consumed him so viscerally that He could barely tell where he ended and where they began. So like any sane person, Jeno opted to wander the earth most night with immense hunger than subject himself to the memories of the living.

But tonight, none of it mattered.
Because he had seen him.

Jaemin.

Not a ghost. Not a dream.
Alive. Breathing.

For centuries, Jeno had imagined what it would be like. To find him again, to see the eyes that had once looked upon him without fear. And even though the god of Death had warned him of the price he paid; he still hadn’t imagined that Jaemin would look at him as a stranger. That his own name, the one Jaemin had once spoken like a prayer, would mean nothing to him now.

And yet… when Jeno had said it aloud, something had flickered behind those eyes. A spark, faint but real. It was enough to make him believe that maybe the god of Death had not taken everything.

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Jeno leaned against the brick wall of an alley, the rain sliding down his skin like cold fingers. He could still taste the echo of Jaemin’s pulse in the air along with his scent and warmth. It was intoxicating, maddening.

He clenched his jaw, fangs pressing faintly against his lower lip as the hunger surged at the mere memory of him. It wasn’t just thirst this time; it was instinct. Jaemin’s blood called to him — the blood of Caldrith’s prince, blood Jeno had once sworn to protect with his life.

He pressed a trembling hand against his chest. “Not him,” he whispered to himself. “Never him.”

The words were hollow comfort.

The curse had always been cruel in its precision. The closer he came to what he loved, the stronger the hunger grew. The god of Death had promised he would hunger, and now Jeno understood. It wasn’t just blood he craved, it was life itself. Jaemin’s life. His warmth. His forgiveness.

All of it, forever just out of reach.

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He wandered for hours, through narrow streets slick with rain and regret. The city had changed a thousand times since the night under the ash tree, but the sky above it never did. The same gray shroud. The same cold stars.

He thought of that night more often than he wanted to. The smell of smoke. The way the roots of the ash tree curled like claws around the prince’s body. The sound of his own scream echoing into an uncaring sky.
And Death stepping out from the void, smiling as the world burned around them both. His voice still echoing in his bones, centuries later.

By dawn, he found himself once again near Jaemin’s apartment. He hadn’t meant to — he never did. Yet somehow, he always ended up here.

Through the glass, he could see Jaemin moving about the kitchen. The light brushed his face gently, just as it had all those lifetimes ago when he’d stood in the glow of a fire, laughing softly as he teased Jeno about his terrible swordsmanship.

The memory stabbed deeper than hunger.

“Do you still dream of me?” Jeno murmured to the empty air. “Or did the gods steal that too?”

He didn’t expect an answer.

Still, for a moment, the wind shifted and he could have sworn he heard it again, faint and fragile, from some echo in the depths of his memory—“I’ll find you again.”And now that he had, Jeno wasn’t sure he could survive it.

He turned away before the sun could touch him. His throat burned, his pulse unsteady. He could almost taste the warmth of Jaemin’s blood still lingering in the air. That forbidden sweetness that promised both salvation and damnation.

Suddenly, he found himself whispering a prayer he no longer believed in, to a god who had cursed him:

“Let me have the strength to stay away.” Jeno said somberly more to himself than the god of Death. But the curse had other plans And somewhere, deep inside, a voice older than the world whispered back:

You asked to bring him back, Jeno of Virelle. Now you must bear what comes after.